


Forever Yours

by BlackVelvet42



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Episode: s05e01 Night, F/M, Heavy Angst, Introspection, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackVelvet42/pseuds/BlackVelvet42
Summary: "After all, what could possibly be safer than nothingness?"
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35





	Forever Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Three amazing women commented and betaed this story: arcadia75, devovere, and Caladenia. Thank you so much for all your help.

* * *

Sitting motionless in the solitude of her quarters, staring out of her window with nothing to do and nowhere to be, she had plenty of time to ruminate on whatever thought happened to stir in her mind.

Like her skin. And Voyager’s hull. And how, in essence, they were the same, both serving as barriers between darkness and the life on her ship. Such a curious detail to notice.

In addition to the tritanium exterior, Voyager had a force field offering extra shielding. She, on the other hand, had the rank of captain, invisible like the energy field and equally powerful, controlling the shadows that filled her soul.

Every day, she still attached the pips to her collar. Even though she had no intention of leaving her quarters, the routine reminded her of her position and responsibilities. But, after eight weeks of traveling across this endless night, the emptiness outside calling the emptiness inside her, she had trouble remembering why any of those things had ever held much meaning.

No sooner had the anomaly appeared within sensor range than someone had named it The Void. In all bleakness, the description fitted. And once concluding there was no way around, they had entered it with confidence, trusting in their ability to cope. The region had seemed harmless enough; after all, what could possibly be safer than nothingness?

Surprisingly quickly, they had all come to feel its power.

The darkness outside Voyager’s windows was absolute. Unnatural. Thoroughly disturbing. Gazing out, there was nothing for the human senses to grab onto, like going suddenly blind or worse, like being buried alive. Even if they shut down the view and focused elsewhere, its presence crept into every room and every moment, summoning fears and weaknesses locked within.

Most of the crew reacted as she had expected. They reached out to one another for comfort and strength and, in the absence of anything significant to do, busied their days with whatever diversions they could come up with.

But she was not like them. Where her crew sought out light and life, she embraced the night. Instead of turning away, she greeted it with open eyes like a storm she had been waiting for. 

Or a long-lost friend who had never really left her.

She had never imagined it would find her again here, at the other end of the galaxy, but once the overwhelming darkness wrapped itself around her, inexorably seeping into her being, she knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Not anymore.

The darkness inside her had a name, of course. It was no stranger to her. 

The clinical depression she had suffered from after her father and fiancée had died was well documented, stored in her Starfleet personnel file, and brought up every time she had been evaluated for promotion. Not talking about that period had not been an option, because the career she had strived for since childhood depended on her cooperation and being able to show she had recovered.

And, as she had learned in the extensive therapy that followed, the indication of recovery was the ability to transform the chaos of those months into words, into a coherent whole, and to put her loss into perspective, then to move on with the stable understanding of how that experience had molded her as a person, as an officer.

God, how she had hated it.

All the hours exploring her inner world, reflecting on her past, her emotions, her relationships. Exhausting, pointless. Solely for your own benefit, everyone had assured her, but what good did it do to look back when all she found was more sorrow, memories clinging to her like a vine, preventing her from moving forward?

Not to mention what a complete lie the public story had been.

Two months spent in bed, sleeping away her days, a poor heartbroken little girl. Gently nurtured back to life by her loving family and Starfleet’s finest counseling. And the puppy she had found lost and cold in a blizzard, rescued and cared for, to begin the journey to health, together. 

It was such a nice tale, clean and simple, almost sweet, the kind her superiors, friends, colleagues, and the media hungry for the next headline wanted to hear.

More than the truth, she had discovered, people longed to hear about hope. They craved stories of hardship and survival, of resilience and determination to overcome all obstacles thrown in the path to success. Perhaps they needed those stories for themselves, to give them faith in miracles despite the universe providing plenty of proof there was no such thing.

Maybe that was why no one doubted her version of the story or asked for more details, and soon enough, she had learned what to reveal and what to hide.

The reality had been quite different.

How could she even begin to explain the black hole she had dropped into at the deaths of two men who had formed the cornerstones of her life; her past and her future?

How could she be asked to remember the sequence of events that followed—the condolences, the funeral, the leave granted without requesting—when she went through every minute on autopilot, her heart frozen and her mind numb from a loss too great to accept?

How could she ever find meaning in the days spent crying so hard she thought she couldn’t breathe? Or the week after the tears had run out, lying paralyzed in bed in her dimmed apartment, ignoring both the distant sounds of incoming calls and the fading demands of her body to stay alive because neither mattered to her anymore?

The recollection of her mother and sister appearing at the side of her bed was like a dream, blurry and surreal like the many other things she had begun to see in her quiet isolation, not to be trusted because none of those illusions were real. She didn’t respond when they talked to her, didn’t object when they moved her. Like a ghost, held in life by a thread of guilt.

Convinced she only needed the love and care of her family, they brought her to her mother’s house, upstairs to her childhood bedroom. There, Gretchen did what mothers tend to do: she took her wounded child under her wing, shielded her from the cruel world, and did everything in her power to heal her back to strength.

Gretchen sat hours by her bed, stroking her hair and caressing her back, flooding her with tenderness and compassion, telling her again and again that there was nothing she could have done differently. 

The soothing words had no impact on her, all the affirmation washing over her like rain. One thing that did reach her, though, was her mother’s touch. It made her cry again. But unlike the earlier tears, these were silent, falling slowly down her cheeks without emotion. A peculiar sensation, but to her mother they were evidence that she was alive, feeling, healing.

The rest of the time, she stared blindly at the wall.

Her sister didn’t settle for her tears. Practical as always and not blessed with much sensitivity or patience, Phoebe soon discarded the fruitless sympathy and gentleness and simply poured a bucket of ice-cold water on her, dragged her from the bed, downstairs for a meal, outside for a walk. And when that didn’t seem to spark her spirit, Phoebe tried to provoke any kind of reaction from her, irritating her as only a sister could, just to free her from the prison of her mind.

To her credit, Phoebe was persistent. 

Eventually, both her mother and sister gave up and called a doctor, even though they knew admitting she needed professional help might end the career that was everything to her. At that point, she didn’t care.

Nor did she care about the endless questions and examinations, the medication she was prescribed, and the therapy she was recommended.

She remembered thinking briefly about the irony that while mankind had made such huge advances in so many areas of science, the mind remained a mystery and depression something that still killed people every day.

The void that had devoured her seemed immutable. None of the treatments managed to temper her dark thoughts or lift the heavy weight off her; they merely scratched the surface. They did, however, restore some of her energy and will. 

A deadly combination, she later realized.

Because the first thing she wanted, when she improved enough to actually want anything, was to move back to her apartment, away from her family, their observant eyes and suffocating affection.

The doctor was pleased. He took her wish as a sign of healing and supported her idea. After all, she was an adult, and the intensive care provided by her family would, in the long run, only impede the rebuilding of her own emotional resources, he told them.

Warned by their instincts, her mother and sister objected. And when she moved out anyway, they insisted they be allowed to visit her daily, not bothering to disguise the fact that their surveillance was nothing less than a suicide watch.

She agreed. Like the good girl she was raised to be, she played the part given to her, making a half-hearted attempt at working for her recovery. And after a while of keeping up her flawless performance, they gave in to her reassurance that all she needed was time alone to clear her thoughts and find her wings again.

How could they have been so naïve?

No one ever found out the truth about those weeks she was left alone. Not her family, not her therapist or doctor, not Starfleet. No one saw the careful plans she made, nor the two times she tried to execute those plans.

In the end, it was the second time she cut her wrists that shifted something inside her.

The blade slid deeper then, the pain shooting through her and lighting her senses before calming into a softer, throbbing ache, blissfully drowning all other feelings. Eyes wide and holding her breath, she watched the first red droplets turn into a crimson tide, flowing onto her pale skin, draining away her life with every beat of her heart. A soothing warmth spread along her arm and she almost laughed out loud, mesmerized at how easy it was.

At that moment, the most comforting possible thought filled her mind, snapping her out of the trance and lifting her above the thick, black waters that had threatened to pull her under forever.

Whatever happened, she would always have this backup. If she ever needed a way out of an intolerable existence, be it tomorrow or next week or years from now, she had this choice. No one would be able to stop her. 

More than anything offered to her so far, this revelation was the key that allowed the blade to slip from her fingers and urged her to press the wound with the hem of her shirt. 

She didn’t need to achieve anything. Not for anyone. She didn’t have to be anything she didn’t want to be. Her life was, quite literally, in her own hands, and if she so wanted, she was free to drop everything.

With this discovery tucked in her heart, she finally found the will to start taking care of herself. One tiny, leaden step at a time, she started eating and sleeping better, leaving the house and seeing people. Going through the motions mimicking life. Her therapist noticed the change and congratulated her on all the hard work that was beginning to pay off, and she concurred, veiling the truth behind her effort into a cautious smile.

In time, she also returned to the responsibilities expected of a Starfleet officer and switched from science to command training as Admiral Paris had recommended. Not because of any true passion or ambition, no, that grew much later, but because it was something different and even more challenging, a means to anchor herself to the present and force herself through another day. Whenever her mood took a turn for the worse, she weighed whether to continue or to give up, choosing to go on—for now.

A year later, she was evaluated and given clearance, the case closed and filed under her personal information as a permanent, although brief, stain in her pristine record. A natural reaction to a devastating loss, nearly destroying the career of a promising young ensign, but one she had conquered, emerging from it even stronger.

But despite what everyone believed, the darkness had never left her. Instead, it had become her constant companion, following her through every struggle and success, pushing her ever forward.

If she reached back in her memories far enough, as she had been asked to do in therapy, she could recall how early that entity had twined itself into her existence. Whether it was the result of a long family line of depression, of growing up with an absent father whose love and attention were dependent on her achievements, or of the feeling she never quite fit in anywhere she went, she didn’t know, and the therapy didn’t provide her with a ready answer.

As a child, the void had only faintly brushed her mind, and she had found it easy to distract herself with yet another book to read, equation to solve, or astronomical phenomenon to marvel at. But in her adolescence, those caresses had grown more prominent, into distinct moments she could still vividly recall. Moments when she had stood at the brink of an abyss so terrifying, she had intuitively recognized the utmost importance and urgency to take a step back and look away, through any means possible.

She had learned very quickly the value of keeping herself busy. The shadows were constantly there, lurking at the edge of her consciousness, ready to grab her if given the chance, but if she didn’t pause, if she filled every waking hour with something to do, she could remain one step ahead of them and pretend she was like everyone else and not an imposter, living on borrowed time.

Because once your heart has been touched by that darkness, something changes, and your mind opens to a world you had thought beyond comprehension.

You understand that some people gazing into the restless ocean don’t see beauty; they see an escape. They don’t lean over the railing to admire the view, but to flirt with the idea of plunging overboard, never to surface.

You understand the call of death, the need to reach for a rope or a blade—or maybe a drug, chasing a fleeting oblivion while thinking if by any chance the substance would this time do more and take you away forever... it wouldn’t be such a great loss.

And you certainly understand the need to take risks and seek danger, from seedy clubs or one-night strangers, from high speed races or high altitude jumps, or from the deep dark space, not caring if death finds you sooner rather than later, because the emptiness inside is as unbearable as the dull, choking melancholy or the sharp pain of despair, each kind of suffering nameless but absolute, with no other end but the final one.

So, when you sit in your quarters, facing the darkness you have carried inside throughout your life, thinking about choices and mistakes, regret and guilt carved deep into your being, you yield under its weight and surrender to its deadly embrace.

And when your first officer comes by again, offering his useless empathy and insight, making his weak demands of duty and morale, you care as little as you did the last time he stopped by. For what is he next to the silent, faceless force that no one has managed to break or tame or even grasp. Not your mother, sister, friends, or doctors.

Compared to that, what is he?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Without hesitation, you dismiss him and his insignificant words, and hope he’ll finally understand not to come back.

You don’t hear the doors close when he leaves, because you’ve already returned to the arms of another, the one being that has ever truly been there for you. Like a friend or a lover, staying with you even if you fought them, present even when you don’t see them, persistent and patient in waiting for the right moment to claim you as theirs.

Not the lover you would have chosen, no, but one that chose you and will never let you go. And when its cold, merciless whispers grow louder again, pulling you into the depths of failure and worthlessness, you know you are no match for its power.

Like an echo from the past, the alternative starts to form.

* * *


End file.
